


Business as Usual

by Emmyllou



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Magic, Period Typical Attitudes, Time Travel, Tommy Shelby's Very Good Plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:50:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmyllou/pseuds/Emmyllou
Summary: A spell gone awry sends the Scoobies across time and space to Birmingham in 1921, where they must seek help from an unlikely ally.Unfortunately, Tommy Shelby doesn't do favors.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: /r/FanFiction Prompt Challenge #17 / March 2020





	1. One Slayer Too Many

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for period-typical racial slurs, but nothing that isn't already in Peaky Blinders.
> 
> Thanks to Tink for beta-ing this fic and fact checking me when I couldn't remember obscure Buffy lore! You can find her works on [AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinkerbellBleu/pseuds/TinkerbellBleu) and [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/11647054/TinkerbellBleu).
> 
> This is set sometime in season 2 of Peaky Blinders and early-ish season 6 of Buffy before Tabula Rasa.

Tommy Shelby sat in his office in his gambling den in his street of Watery Lane and stared across his desk at a group of people who were not supposed to be there. His cigarette was close to burning his fingers, he realized; ash had fallen on his desk, unheeded. He took one last pull and snuffed it.

“It’s fortunate you arrived when you did,” he found himself saying. “I lost my Slayer just last week.”

The blonde—  _ Buffy, _ he reminded himself, and he questioned the wisdom of her parents for firstly giving her such a name and secondly setting her loose on the world dressed like a man, and barely at that— narrowed her eyes at him.  _ “Your _ Slayer?” she repeated, challenge clear in her tone.

Tommy was not drunk enough for this. He set about remedying the situation. “My Slayer,” he repeated before tossing back a glass of whiskey.

“Are you a Watcher, then?” That came from Rupert Giles, the ageing man in an almost-proper suit with an almost-proper accent. Tommy eyed him briefly, then again more closely. He made a living off identifying dangerous men; this was one of them.

“No,” Tommy said. “Not a Watcher. She told hers to fuck off a few years back. Haven’t heard from them since.”

“When you say  _ lost,” _ said Willow, nearly stammering, “do you mean…”

Tommy poured himself another glass of whiskey. He could feel a headache starting to form somewhere behind his eyes. “She’s somewhere in London.”

“Oh.” Willow looked far too relieved at the news that someone she didn’t know wasn’t dead. “Good.”

“Why are you here?” Tommy asked.

Willow looked sheepish. “It’s my fault, really,” she said. “I was trying a new spell and—” she stopped herself and glanced anxiously at Giles. “You do— know about magic, don’t you? You mentioned a Slayer, so I assumed, but if you don’t—”

“I know about magic,” Tommy interrupted. He waved his whiskey glass at her to get her to continue. He was starting to feel the effects of too much whiskey imbibed over too short a time.  _ Perfect. _

“Well, anyway, that’s about the gist of it. Spell gone wrong. The usual.” Willow nodded as if that lay the matter to rest.

“Willow, I have  _ told you—” _ Giles began, but Buffy cut him off.

“Not the time, Giles.” She looked back to Tommy. “We’re here because your sister is the Slayer. We need access to the Watchers’ library to reverse the spell that brought us here.”

Tommy thought, came to a decision, nodded. “Why do you need her to get access?”

“The spell that Willow used  _ unwisely _ and  _ impetuously _ and which she has firmly resolved to  _ never cast again—” _ Buffy elbowed Giles rather hard “—is, er, not exactly sanctioned by the Watchers’ Council.”

“They’d probably burn her for it,” said Xander from the back of the group, rather more cheerfully than the situation called for. (Tommy had sneered to himself when he had been introduced. What was wrong with plain old  _ Alexander?) _

“It’s England, Xander,” Giles said primly. “We don’t burn people here.”

“Not unless we need to hide a body,” agreed Tommy. He took a moment to enjoy the looks of discomfiture that flickered across the faces of the three younger members of the strange group. Giles was more reserved, which earned him a tick of respect in Tommy’s book.

Buffy crossed her arms. “Your sister is somewhere in London?” she asked.

Tommy nodded.

“Do you know where?”

Another nod.

“Will you tell us?”

Tommy smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. “I find myself in need of a Slayer.”

“Your sister’s a Slayer,” Buffy said. “And you know where she is.”

“Yeah, she told me to fuck off too.” Tommy lit another cigarette and took a long pull. “It’s an easy job. We visit a few acquaintances of mine— vampires— say a few words, maybe knock some heads around a bit. No slaying. You’ll be on your way to my sister in a day.”

Buffy glanced at Giles, who shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he said.

“Not at all,” said Tommy. “They’re businessmen, like myself. They have no interest in my demise just yet. Wouldn’t be profitable.”

“It’s not your demise I’m concerned about,” Giles said.

Tommy smoked to prevent himself from smiling. “The Slayer won’t be harmed. She’s only there as a show of force, as it were. Normally, I’d bring my sister...”

“But she’s not an option just now,” Buffy finished for him. She frowned. “How do we know this isn’t some sort of trick?”

_ “You _ came to  _ me,” _ Tommy pointed out. “You want me to do you a favor. I want you to do me one in turn.”

“We couldn’t just… owe you one?” Willow asked hopefully.

Tommy didn’t dignify that with a response.

Buffy turned away from him and pulled the rest of her group into a huddle. They were far enough away that Tommy couldn’t overhear much outside of the occasional hissed  _ “It’s far too dangerous!” _ and  _ “I can’t believe I even have to say this, but—”. _ Xander gestured very emphatically several times, and Giles took off his glasses and polished them more than once.

They seemed to reach a consensus after several minutes. “I’ll do it,” said Buffy to her group, loud enough for Tommy to overhear. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before. And besides, it’s not like I don’t know what’ll happen, if I—” she broke off with a hysterical giggle. Willow, for some reason, looked as though she were about to cry.

But when Buffy turned around to face Tommy once more, there was no hysteria or sadness in her expression, only the sort of hard determination one got when one had to face a difficult path without turning aside. She nodded. “We’ll go.”

Tommy shook his head. “Just you. Unless you want to bring your friends into a nest of vampires.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Xander said. “We’re not amateurs.”

Tommy doubted that. “All the same, you will stay. They’ll be able to smell the magic coming off the witch. It’ll make them jumpy. Jumpy's bad for business.”

“Vampires can’t smell magic,” Buffy said, but she looked uncertain and didn’t press the point.

“So, you do business with vampires,” said Xander. It wasn’t a question. “You’re not a vampire yourself, though, right?”

Tommy watched him with an expression that he hoped conveyed how stupid he thought the question was. “I’m a man. A very bad one, some might say, but a man nevertheless.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, you’re super bad. Are we done with the posturing? Can we go now?”

“Not quite.” Tommy crossed to the door of his office and flung it open. “Pol!”

“What is it?” came the irritated reply a moment later.

“Need you in here.” Tommy left his office door open and settled himself once more behind the desk.

The clack of her heels heralded Polly’s arrival. “What is it?” she asked again, before she caught sight of Tommy’s strange guests.

“Polly, meet Buffy, Willow, Giles, and Xander.” He gestured, indicating them as he said their names. “You lot, meet my aunt Pol.”

Polly took a careful step closer, examining them in turn. “This one’s a witch,” she said, her eyes on Willow. Her gaze slid to Buffy. “And this one has spirits— echoes of spirits— all around her. I can see them swirl around. I can almost hear their voices.” She reached out with one hand but seemed to think better of it. She said nothing of Xander or Giles, but she gave the latter a small, wicked smile.

Giles cleared his throat and removed his spectacles to polish them.

“I’m taking the Slayer with me to the meeting with Alfie,” Tommy said with a gesture. “As you can see, her clothes are unacceptable.”

Polly looked between Tommy and Buffy with some alarm. “Slayer? You don’t mean…”

“We’re from the future,” Willow said. “Tommy said the current Slayer is in London. I’m sure she’s fine.” She gave what she evidently thought was a reassuring sort of smile.

Tommy took a pull from his cigarette. “Can you sort out some clothes for them?” he asked, exhaling smoke.

Polly looked at him sharply. “What for?”

“Because they’ll attract too much attention going about dressed as they are. Some of your old things, maybe, or Ada’s, if she’s left any. And go to John’s for clothes for the men, if you have to.”

“Shall they wear my fine silk day dresses? And perhaps my best heels?”

“No, Pol.” Tommy dropped his head into his hands and wished for one bloody day when he didn’t have to fight everyone around him. “Just some hats and some coats— long ones for the girls, to cover them up— and trousers for the men.”

“Fine,” Polly said. She eyed the newcomers again. “Wait here.” She strode out of the office, her heels clacking imperiously. Near-silence fell, broken only by the faint noises of Small Heath waking up for another dreary day of smoke and toil.

Naturally, it could not last.

“So what d’you do here in this…” Xander looked around. “Office which contains a surprising and, quite frankly, disturbing amount of alcohol?”

“I’m a bookmaker,” Tommy said.

“Oh, a bookmaker.” Xander nodded and looked around again. “Is this where you make books? I don’t see very many.”

Tommy glanced at Giles, who seemed more sensible than the others, with an expression that he hoped conveyed something along the lines of  _ Is he serious? _

_ Yes, _ Giles’s weary sigh seemed to say.  _ I’m afraid he is. _ “He takes the bets,” Giles said aloud, “when people gamble.”

Buffy sat at the chair in front of Tommy’s desk, mercifully distracting him from the rest of that conversation. “You said we’re meeting vampires. What’s your business with them?”

“My men bake their bread,” Tommy said with no small amount of amusement.

“And why do you need a Slayer for a business meeting?”

“Because if I don’t have one, they’ll probably try to kill me.”

Buffy raised an eyebrow. “Over bread?”

“Among other things.”

Thankfully, Polly returned a few seconds later, her arms piled high with long coats and a couple of hats teetering precariously on top of the bundle. She tossed the first to Willow, then reconsidered and swapped it for a longer, darker affair with fur at the collar. It had a hat that went with it. At first, Willow demurred. “Ladies don’t go about without hats here,” Polly said. At that, Willow shrugged into the coat and placed the hat on her head. Polly eyed Xander’s shabby khaki trousers with disapproval but handed over a three-piece suit— Tommy recognized it as one of John’s from before the war— that looked like it should almost fit. Buffy received a navy wool coat that would surely be too warm for the Birmingham summer, but she tied it about her waist without complaint. Polly approached Giles, flicked her eyes up and down his torso. “I think you’ll do just fine,” she said.

Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Um,” said Xander, clutching the suit to his chest. “Is there somewhere I can change?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “Here.”

“Oh.” Xander looked from Tommy to Polly to the girls and Giles, who muttered something Tommy couldn’t quite catch but sounded like  _ oh for heaven’s sake. _ The newcomers turned their backs.

Tommy looked back down to his books— not out of regard for Xander's modesty but because he had actual business to attend to. When he glanced back up again, Polly and Xander were locked in some sort of staring match, Polly's quiet amusement seeming to pin Xander in place with self-consciousness. "Come on, Pol," Tommy said.

She shot him an annoyed look for ruining her fun but crossed to the desk opposite Tommy to read the accounts upside down. Faint rustlings sounded from across the room.

"It's a little big," Xander said a few minutes later.

Tommy looked up. "You up for a trip to London, Pol?"

Polly tutted. "What, to mind them?"

"Keep them out of trouble," said Tommy. "I don't want to involve Arthur in this, so don't go anywhere he might be. Go to a nice tea-room or something."

"And what shall I say when the girls can't take their coats off?" Polly asked.

Tommy sighed and lit another cigarette. He wanted another whiskey, but he also needed to be sharp to make a plan for the meeting with Alfie. Alfie won out, for now. "I don't care what you fucking do, Pol," he said around the cigarette. "Just keep them out of fucking trouble, eh?" He waved his cigarette at the newcomers. "And you lot. Keep your heads down and don't attract attention. The situation in London is delicate. I don’t want any complications."

"You're bringing a Slayer into a delicate situation with your business partners, who are  _ vampires," _ said Giles. “That rather seems like a complication.”

“Not at all, Mr. Giles,” Tommy said on a stream of smoke. “Just business as usual.”


	2. Business Meeting With a Vampire

_ Business as usual _ apparently included being smuggled into London in the belly of a barge manned by Tommy’s uncle, who had introduced himself as Charlie, and several other members of Tommy’s gang, who had not introduced themselves at all. They spoke a language Buffy didn’t recognize but Giles informed her was Romani.

“Do you speak Romani?” asked Buffy.

“No,” Giles admitted.

He was no help at all. Buffy sighed and settled back down against the rough wooden wall. Her palms itched, and her leg bounced. She was not good at being—  _ caged, _ her mind supplied. She didn’t like the implications of that word, but the only other word she could think of to describe her current situation was  _ entombed, _ which was far worse.

The wheelhouse wasn’t big enough to fit all four of them at once, so during the day, they took turns. One or two would hide in the wheelhouse, while the others burrowed beneath various rolls and folds of canvas or wedged themselves between the crates that cluttered the back of the boat (for Charlie smuggled more traditional contraband in addition to his passengers). Buffy had tried to hide in the wheelhouse on her own on one occasion, just to get a few minutes of privacy, but the feeling of being trapped—  _ suffocating— buried— the walls of the pine box closing in on her—  _ was so intense that she had nearly torn the door off its hinges in her effort to escape.

So Giles sat with her and talked, and Buffy did not suffocate.

The boat-ride to London took three days. They barely stopped, not even to eat or make camp. Charlie and his men slept in shifts under the stars or the burning sun with nothing more than a scrap of canvas propped up on a pole for shelter. There was a single chamber pot for communal use, unless the men pissed over the side of the boat, which was most of the time. Willow devised a spell (under much supervision) to levitate the chamber pot, dump its contents in the canal, and clean it thoroughly. Embarrassing as it was, Buffy’s disgust at the thought of doing it herself silenced any complaints she might have voiced about the misuse of magic. All in all, it was a miserable three days, and Buffy was beginning to feel distinctly unclean by the end of it. She was almost glad when they churned to a halt and Charlie announced that they had arrived in Camden Town. Buffy hastily drew on her borrowed coat before stepping out of the wheelhouse, and she was glad to see that Xander and Willow had the same instinct. Giles, of course, was still wearing his customary tweed. It was oddly comforting.

Buffy had never seen London. This was not a favorable first meeting. They had docked at some sort of boat-yard, it seemed, surrounded by warehouses and stinking of coal and demons. The hairs on the back of Buffy’s neck rose, and she checked and double-checked her stakes and holy water.

Tommy and Polly stood nearby, out of the way of the men at work in the yard. They, of course, had not been smuggled into London in a barge; they had ridden in what looked to be a very fine car, if Giles’s look of appreciation was any indication of quality.

“I need a bath,” she informed Tommy as Charlie offered his hand to help her to the dock. (She ignored him.)

Tommy glanced at her, then back to the men who were unloading the smuggled crates from Charlie’s boat. “You want a bath, you can jump in the canal.”

Buffy folded her arms and fixed Tommy with her best Slayer Stare. He didn’t even have the decency to notice. “I need a bath, and I need to wash my hair.” She tugged a lank lock. “Look at it. It doesn’t bounce. It doesn’t shine.”

Tommy did not look at it.

Willow spoke up from behind Buffy. “I could probably come up with a spell—”

“No!” said three voices at once.

“You can take a bath after the meeting,” Tommy said. “There won’t be time before.”

“When is the meeting?” asked Giles.

“Now,” said Tommy. He pointed at Buffy. “You’re coming with me. Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do. Don’t fall for it when Alfie tries to bait you. And  _ do not, _ under any circumstances, despite any provocation they might offer, stake any vampires. Am I understood?”

Buffy didn’t like being spoken to like a child, and Tommy didn’t get to give her orders. “I don’t like being spoken to like a child,” she said. “You don’t get to give me orders.”

“Am I understood?” Tommy repeated.

Buffy glared at him sullenly.

“Am I  _ fucking understood _ or not?” Tommy puffed himself up into a ball of anger, like a cat raising its hackles.

Buffy watched him, unimpressed. (Not much managed to impress her these days, but she shook the thought off like flicking water from her fingers.) “Whatever.”

“Fucking Slayers,” Tommy muttered to Polly, quietly enough that Buffy didn’t think he meant to be overheard. “All so fucking stubborn.”

“Ada’s worse,” said Polly. She was more familiar with a Slayer’s improved senses; Buffy had to strain to hear her.

Tommy glanced at her. “Is she?”

Polly scoffed and said nothing.

“Right, then,” Tommy said at his usual volume. “If we’re going, we go now. The rest of you, stay with Pol. She’s in charge until I get back.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the edge of the boat-yard without looking to see if Buffy followed.

Buffy smiled at her friends. “Seeya,” she said, and she hurried after Tommy before anyone could tell her  _ goodbye. _

—-

The location of the meeting looked more like a distillery than a vampire nest. Smelled like one, too, but beneath the reek of rum was the familiar scent of blood and dust.  _ Vampires. _ Buffy’s nerves felt energized, electrified; she was coiled and ready to spring. She breathed shallowly, and her eyes darted to and fro. She noted every shadow, every brick, every scrap of lumber that littered the yard that led to the nest. Tommy’s shoulders tightened as they approached, but Buffy wasn’t sure if the atmosphere affected him as much as it did her or if he was merely anxious about the meeting.

Tommy knocked on the door, and a young, curly-haired man wearing an apron and a yarmulke answered. The sunlight hit him full in the face, but he didn’t flinch away.  _ Not a vampire, then. _ “Hello, Ollie,” Tommy said. “I have an appointment.”

Ollie looked doubtfully between Tommy and Buffy. “You were told to come alone.”

“I always bring a Slayer when I’m told to come alone,” said Tommy.

Ollie frowned at that. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Solomons.”

“You do that.”

The door shut in their faces. Tommy waited patiently, scarcely moving a muscle. Buffy tried to imitate him but with little success. She rocked back and forth on her feet, she untied and retied the belt of her coat, she twisted her fingers together, and she jumped at every sharp sound that came from the town around her.

There were a lot of sounds. It was starting to get exhausting.

Fortunately, Ollie reappeared a few minutes later. “Mr. Solomons says it’s fine.”

“Thank you, Ollie,” said Tommy, and they followed the young man into the vampires’ nest.

It was cleaner than most nests Buffy had been in, though that wasn’t saying much. But it really did look like— well, like a place of business, as Tommy had put it. No smears of blood, no corpses, no humans dangling from the ceiling and half-alive. There were, however, many people at work rolling barrels from one place to another and stacking them up, then sometimes unstacking them and rolling them to a different corner of the room. Others rushed about carrying clipboards or crates. Both men and vampires did this work. She could tell by the smell: blood and dust overlaid with sweat and rum. Her stomach churned.

A man in a top hat and an expensive-looking suit stood in the center of the bustle, leaning on a cane. He wore his human mask, but his unnatural stillness and the hard, predatory look on his face left no doubt in Buffy’s mind that he was a vampire. Ollie led them toward the vampire, then moved to stand a few feet beside and behind him with a small nod. Buffy wondered if the cane were an affectation or if he had truly been injured enough to need it. He shuffled forward. If it were an affectation, it was a good one.

“Tommy!” the vampire cried. He clasped Tommy’s hand in both of his own. “Tommy, I understand that you have had a bereavement. I am so sorry. Truly, Tommy. I will send flowers. I will send you a bouquet of flowers as a sign of my sympathy for your loss.”

“No need, Alfie,” Tommy said. “My sister is fine.”

Alfie blinked, Tommy’s hand still clutched between his own. “Ollie said you had a Slayer with you. Only one of ‘em born every generation. Like us.”

“There’s two of us, Alfie.” Tommy gestured at Buffy. “And now there’s two of ‘em, too. Brought here by a spell gone awry. But as soon as this business is done, she’ll be off, and there’ll only be the one.”

“Yeah, but the one’s your sister, innit?” Alfie finally dropped Tommy’s hand. “Fucking off-limits, eh?”

“Fucking off-limits,” Tommy agreed. “Let’s talk business.”

“Yes, business. Right. If you’ll just follow me.” Alfie turned on his heel and led them down a dark passageway, Ollie following behind. The smell of rum faded somewhat, for which Buffy was grateful, but the smell of vampire only grew stronger. “My office is being cleaned,” Alfie explained as they walked. “I’m not normally a messy eater, but my last meal… Well. It squirmed and ran all over the place, dinnit? Waste of blood. Fucking disgusting.”

Buffy had her stake in her hand, and Alfie’s back was turned. It would be so easy to do it, to push it through the layers of his expensive suit until it hit his heart. He was powerful enough— the angle was bad enough— it wouldn’t happen instantly. She’d be able to see the look of shock on his face as he fell to dust.

Tommy shot her a look of warning, and she hated him for it almost as much as she hated the vampire.

Their destination turned out to be a well-lit storeroom with a desk and several chairs set up in the middle. A telephone and a bottle of whiskey sat on the desk. Despite his limp, Alfie didn’t sit. Ollie did, though; he retrieved a ledger from one of the desk drawers, drew up a chair so he could face the small gathering, and immersed himself in checking a series of figures written in black ink.

“Business. Right.” Alfie said, and he squinted at Tommy. “Whiskey?”

Tommy shook his head.

“You, Slayer,” said Alfie without looking away from Tommy. “Whiskey?”

Buffy looked at Tommy, but his own gaze was focused on Alfie. “Isn’t it a bit early?”

That got Alfie’s attention. He let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Too early,” he repeated. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Tom, you know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?”

Tommy said nothing.

“Alright, alright.” The grin slid off Alfie’s face as though it had never been there. “Business, then. Business is good. Your boys are hard workers. Good bakers.”

_ Bakers, _ Buffy thought. She looked around for bread but saw only rum.

“Business is good for me as well, Alfie.”

“Is it? Is it indeed?”

Tommy gave a tiny nod. “It is, indeed.”

“Because I hear you’ve ‘ad some Irish trouble.” Alfie leaned once more on his cane.

Buffy saw a muscle in Tommy’s jaw jump. “There’s always Irish trouble these days, Alfie.”

“Yeah, well.” Alfie squinted at Tommy as though trying to read his mind. “You make sure it doesn’t interfere with our business.”

“It’s handled. It will not interfere with our business.”

“It’s handled,” Alfie repeated. It was not a question. He turned to exchange a glance with Ollie. “It’s handled, he says. It will not interfere with our business, he says.”

Ollie gave a small, uncertain nod, and Alfie looked back to Tommy.

“Well, maybe I have a few concerns, right, about how you’re handling your Irish troubles.” Alfie took one slow, deliberate step forward, then another, his eyes never leaving Tommy’s. “Maybe I think what you need is a bit of an edge. There’s not many of us among the Paddies, y’know. If there’s one group of mortals, right, that know how to slay a vampire, it’s  _ Catholics.” _ He spat the word like a curse.

“Alfie, we’ve been through this.” Despite a vampire advancing on him looking as dangerous as he could without his fangs— and possibly  _ more _ dangerous because of the lack— Tommy managed to sound almost bored. “My gypsy blood would turn your stomach.”

“Yeah, it would, Tommy. It would.” Alfie took another step closer, even more slowly. “But Sabini does not like the fact that I ‘ave allied myself with a gang of  _ humans. _ He is very angry with me. Mm. Very angry. Says it’s an insult to demonic cooperation an’ goodwill an’ the like. What do you think about that, eh?”

Tommy said nothing and moved not a single muscle as Alfie’s lips pulled back in a snarl and his fangs slid out.

Buffy did not have nearly as much composure as Tommy. Her stake was in her hand in an instant, and she dropped into a crouch, ready to spring. Her breath sounded harsh and loud in the small room, even to her own ears. She adjusted her grip on her stake, the hard edge digging into her skin with a familiar, comforting sort of pain.

Ollie’s reaction was slower. He fumbled for a gun and cocked it, dropping the ledger in the process, but seemed unsure of whether to point it at Tommy or Buffy. He settled for aiming it vaguely in the middle, where if it went off accidentally it would hit a barrel of rum.

Neither Tommy nor Alfie seemed to notice either of these movements; their gazes were locked on each other. Tommy’s lips pressed into a thin line as Alfie took another step forward. He was barely an inch away from Tommy, now. The sleeves and hems of their coats brushed up against one another.

“You know what I think?” Alfie whispered. He opened his mouth wide and laid his fangs delicately, almost tenderly, against Tommy’s neck.

Tommy took several short, sharp breaths— Buffy saw his chest rise and fall and heard the edge of shock— before he controlled himself again. It was the first indication of fear Buffy had seen from him, and it settled in then how well and truly fucked they would be if the deal went badly.  _ This is it, _ Buffy thought. This was the point where she wouldn’t be able to save him, no matter how fast she moved.

“What do you think, Alfie?” Tommy asked. He held himself very still. Now that Alfie’s face was out of his line of sight, he fixed his gaze on one of the barrels on the opposite side of the room, looking for all the world as though he were simply a bored businessman. If Buffy couldn’t see the vampire’s fangs at his throat, she wouldn’t have believed he was in mortal peril at all.

After a long pause, Alfie lifted his head once more and stepped away. “I think I’ve been at war with Sabini for the better part of five years, right, and I don’t give a damn what that fucking wop thinks about demonic cooperation or good  _ fucking _ will. Yeah.”

Tommy let out a tiny sigh of relief.

Alfie must have heard, because he smirked. His fangs receded, and he blinked at Ollie as though he just now noticed the gun. “Ollie, Ollie, there’s no need for that, is there? Go on, put it away. Tommy and his Slayer know I don’t mean them any harm, isn’t that right, Tommy? Eh, Slayer, isn’t that right?”

It  _ wasn’t _ right; Buffy was pretty sure he meant Tommy harm and, more importantly, she knew  _ damn _ sure she meant Alfie harm, but she straightened anyway and stowed her stake.

“Are we done here?” Tommy asked, his face impassive.

Alfie looked him up and down. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re done here.” Tommy turned to leave, but Alfie called him back. “Before you go, Tommy… Watch out for Sabini. He’s a crafty man. Likes to play  _ mind _ games. You understand?”

Tommy frowned, his blue, blue eyes searching Alfie’s face like he was looking for a clue. “I understand.”

Alfie nodded, a clear dismissal. “Ollie, show Tommy and his Slayer out, there’s a good lad.”

_ Not his Slayer. _ Buffy wanted to scream with pent-up frustration and tension. She wanted to kill something. She wanted  _ Spike, _ and that was never a good sign. The overlapping scents of rum and blood and dust receded behind her as they followed Ollie out of the distillery and into the daylight. She felt as though she were emerging from underground, and she took a deep breath, then another. Even the stink of coal and horse shit was preferable to the overpowering scent of the distillery.

“Thank you, Ollie,” Tommy said. Ollie gave a little nod and retreated back inside, shutting the door with a thud. Tommy passed a hand over his mouth. “Fuck,” he muttered, just barely loud enough for Buffy to hear.

“He seems nice,” Buffy said. “Reliable. Dependable. Maybe a bit of a risk-taker, but definitely the kind of guy I’d want to do business with.”

Tommy laughed, a little hysterically Buffy thought, and crossed the yard in long strides. “Are all Slayers as fucking mad as you and Ada?”

“I don’t know Ada,” said Buffy as she followed, “so I really shouldn’t judge. Are all gangsters as stupid as you?”

Tommy halted abruptly and spun around to face her. He took two long strides until he was barely an inch away from Buffy and towering over her. “I don’t like being insulted.”

“And I don’t like watching people offer themselves up to be eaten.” Buffy raised an eyebrow. Tommy’s cold anger was disquieting, but she knew better than to give any appearance that she might be intimidated. He was a predator, and like with all predators— like with her— it was best to avoid the impression of weakness. “Shall we call it even?”

“Even?” Tommy passed his hand over his mouth again, a nervous gesture, and Buffy realized how hard he was working to maintain his composure. It would almost be impressive if the reason for it weren’t his own colossal idiocy. “Yes. Even.”

“Great.” Buffy pushed with one finger at the center of his chest, harder and harder until he was forced to step away. “Let me tell you about something called  _ personal boundaries…” _


	3. London's Slayer

“Come on,” Polly said. She chivvied Willow, Xander, and Giles into the car she and Tommy had recently vacated. “It won’t be a long meeting, so we’d best go to Ada’s and wait for them there.”

“Who’s Ada?” asked Willow. She took Xander’s proffered hand as she stepped into the car.

“Tommy’s sister.” Polly stepped in after her. “The Slayer.”

“Is this a Bugatti?” Giles asked appreciatively. He ran a hand over the wood paneling. “I confess, I’ve always wanted to ride in a vintage one, but I’ve never had the opportunity.”

“It is,” said Polly. “But it’s not vintage now.”

Giles looked rather abashed. “No, certainly not.”

By virtue of their embarking order, Polly had the dubious pleasure of being seated next to Willow. The young witch looked almost overwhelmed by the situation. Polly supposed she sympathized. She recalled well the days when she was first coming into her power, how shocking, how wondrous it could be, how she wanted more and more of it. Still—

“You must not be a very strong witch, then, to have ended up here,” Polly said without looking at Willow. She fixed her gaze instead on the unfamiliar streets of London as they passed her by.

“I’m strong!” Willow said indignantly. “I have lots of power. Even if I make a few mistakes here and there.”

Polly smirked to herself.  _ These young witches, all the same, all so eager to prove themselves. _ “Power is not the same thing as strength. The magic does not obey you. You obey it. You give yourself over to it, don’t you?”

Willow nodded once, shakily. Polly was still looking away, but she saw the movement in the corner of her eye, the way Willow’s loose red hair brushed against her shoulders.

“It feels like there’s strength in that, doesn’t it? You want to ride the wave of it and let it carry you down to the well of the power.”

Another nod.

Polly turned to look at her, but Willow’s gaze was fixed firmly on her hands, clenched around the folds of her long overcoat. “It doesn’t matter how many spells you can cast or how much power you throw about yourself. If you cannot resist the tide, if you cannot stand against the wave, you are weak.” She kept her words crisp, like the linens in her new home, starched and prim. Young witches did not often respond well to anger or cruelty, she knew— Ada certainly hadn’t— so she did not allow them to creep into her tone.

“You’re talking about control,” Willow said.

The two strange men in the seat in front had gone quite still. They were listening, Polly knew.  _ Let them listen.  _ “Have you ever lost control, little witch?”

Willow met her gaze then, defiant and proud. “A  _ god _ attacked us. Glory. You know her?”

Polly curved her lips into a tight smile. She didn’t, but she didn’t want to let the others know that. Let them assume what they wanted from her smile. “And did your losing control help the situation?”

Willow bit her lip, looked down at her hands, and didn’t answer, which was answer enough for Polly.

“Just out of curiosity,” Polly said, “how  _ did  _ you end up defeating Glory? I imagine it was a difficult fight.”

“We fought her until she was forced into the human body that imprisoned her,” Giles said. Polly nearly startled at the unexpected sound of his voice but managed to control her reaction. “A young man named Ben. A doctor. In Ben’s body, she had no power, so I smothered him to death with my own hands.”

Twin gasps of shock informed Polly that Willow and Xander had not known this information. She wondered why Giles had chosen to share it now, to share it with her. She looked at him with a new interest. “Is that so?” she murmured, half to herself, but he nodded anyway. “Why tell me, when you haven’t told them?”

Giles didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head, thinking, as though he wasn’t entirely sure himself. “You and Tommy are dangerous people, and you’re putting someone I care for very deeply in a dangerous situation,” he said. He sounded like he was musing aloud rather than answering Polly’s question directly. He turned halfway in his seat to catch her eye. “And I want you to know what I’m willing to do if she doesn’t make it out of there unharmed.”

Polly bristled. “Is that a threat?”

“If you like,” said Giles.

Polly couldn’t help but smile at his audacity.  _ Finally, a man with a spine! _ Willow and Xander still looked shocked at his admission though, so she leaned back in her seat and made a show of looking out the window. She had no interest in the accusations and apologies that followed such a revelation. She did, however, have an interest in what else she might find out about Rupert Giles, if she were patient enough to listen and pretend not to watch.

“How come you never told us?” Willow said. She reached toward the seat in front of her and laid her hand on his shoulder.

Polly was almost shocked at the casual familiarity—  _ had they no care for propriety? _ — then laughed inwardly at herself for being so easily scandalized.

“In a fight over who has kept the most secrets from whom,” Giles said, “you would not win.”

Willow and, for some reason, Xander looked abashed at that.

Polly’s curiosity was piqued, but she had the sense that she would not get satisfying answers to any questions she asked about the matter. In any case, the car was pulling up outside Ada’s house. It was time to call on London’s resident Slayer.

—-

Ada was not who Willow expected her to be. That shouldn’t have been a surprise, because Willow had not thought she had formed any expectations. Somehow, though, she had thought Ada would be cold, like Tommy, or cutting, like Polly, but she was neither of those things, or if she was, it was in her own way, in a  _ Slayer _ way.

Ada wore red lipstick. Ada’s hair was arranged in dark curls. Ada’s dress was a fine rosy pink satin that clung to the planes and curves of her body. Ada poured tea with grace and delicacy. Ada was the most glamorous woman Willow had ever seen. She said so, and Ada laughed. Ada had a beautiful laugh.

“You must not have seen many glamorous women, then,” she said.

Willow nodded, then shook her head. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.

“This is a lovely sitting room,” Giles said, glancing around at the room appreciatively.

It was lovely, Willow knew, lovely in a way that befit a woman like Ada. The walls were a warm cream color, and the fireplace was tall and wide, though the weather was warm enough to not need a fire. They were sitting in comfortable armchairs around a low table, which held the charmingly-patterned tea service and a vase of dry-looking wildflowers. The flowers were the only unlovely thing about the room, and Willow wondered at the arrangement. She looked again at it and smiled— the flowers were ones that provided protection and safety and health.  _ Were they Ada’s doing or Polly’s? _ She couldn’t identify them all. Tara was better with  _ green magic, _ as she had taken to calling it, the sort of magic that called upon flowers and trees and plants of all sorts.

A pang of guilt struck Willow at the thought of Tara, probably terrified at home with Dawn and Anya, all of them wondering where their loved ones were. None of the Scoobies Willow had pulled out of time had mentioned the ones she had left behind, as some sort of unspoken mutual agreement, though she knew explanations would be needed upon their return. She wasn’t sure if she even knew what those explanations would entail.

“Thank you,” said Ada, snapping Willow out of her reverie. “It was paid for with blood and corruption.”

Polly sighed delicately.

“I assume this is not a social visit,” Ada continued. “So let’s skip the pleasantries, shall we?”

“Very well,” said Polly. “These people, and one other, were brought here from the future. The little witch—” she indicated Willow, who felt a surge of irritation at Polly’s continued use of the sobriquet “—got a spell wrong and pulled them all here.”

If Ada were alarmed by this news, the only sign of it was her raised eyebrow. “And where’s the other one?”

“With Tommy, visiting Alfie Solomons.” Polly paused. “She’s a Slayer,” she added, almost unwillingly.

Ada laughed, sat back in her chair, and laughed again. “So Tommy took her with him, because he knew I wouldn’t go.” She eyed Willow, Xander, and Giles in turn. “I suppose you think it’s my fault your friend’s in danger.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons,” Giles said. He looked very much as though he didn’t care what those reasons were.

Willow fiddled with the sleeve of her coat. “Tommy said they wouldn’t be in danger.”

“With Tommy, everyone’s in danger,” Ada muttered. “Himself most of all.” She glanced around at the newcomers again. “So what do you want from me?”

“We need access to the Watchers’ library to look up a spell to get us back to our own time,” Giles said. “I know which spell it is. It’s in Sutton-Grove. And we’re from the beginning of the twenty-first century,” he added, though no one had asked.

“You’re a Watcher yourself, aren’t you?” Ada eyed Giles more closely. “You certainly look the part.”

Giles cleared his throat. “I was, but I left the Council on… rather bad terms, I’m afraid to say.”

“You stood with your Slayer? Against the Council?”

Giles nodded.

Some unspoken communication passed between Ada and Polly then: Ada raised an eyebrow at her, and Polly scoffed and turned away. Willow didn’t quite get the gist of the silent message, but she thought she sensed an air of jealousy from Ada, and beneath that, a painful wound that hadn’t healed.

Giles had noticed it too. “I take it you are not on good terms with the Council, either.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Ada said dryly. “I can get you in, though, if I play the penitent sinner seeking forgiveness. I assume that’s why your Slayer is with Tommy right now, isn’t it? You need me, so he uses her.”

Giles took off his glasses to polish them. “Yes, that’s about the size of it.”

“Tommy fucking Shelby,” Ada said, shaking her head.

Willow almost gasped at the sound of the invective leaving Ada’s beautifully-painted lips, but there was no heat in it. She sounded resigned, almost sad. Willow shared a glance with Xander, who looked worried. Before either of them could say anything, though, Ada spoke again.

“You said you’re from the twenty-first century?”

Willow and Giles nodded, and Xander furrowed his brow for a moment in thought before nodding as well.

Ada picked up her cup of tea and took a tiny sip. “Tell me about the future of socialism. Or the history of it, for you, I suppose.”

“Socialism?” Xander repeated. He shared another glance with Willow as Giles removed his glasses to polish them once more.

“It’s… not a bright future, I’m afraid,” Giles said. He replaced his glasses and leaned forward, and Willow could practically see him gearing himself up for a history lesson. “There was a time from 1936 to 1939 when part of Spain was controlled by Republicans. Anarchists, syndicalists, and communists, mostly, and George Orwell of  _ Animal Farm  _ and  _ 1984  _ fame—” here Giles stopped himself and chuckled. “But of course, you can hardly have read those. Well, he wrote— or will write, I suppose— a very interesting account of it in his  _ Homage to Catalonia _ . But in 1939 they were defeated by Nationalists, made up of monarchists and other conservative groups. There was something called the Red Scare in America during the ‘50s, when a lot of anti-communist sentiment was thrown about. And then the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics splintered in 1991, when…”

Willow rather lost the thread of the lecture. Judging by Xander’s glassy gaze and slack shoulders, she was not the only one. Polly looked quietly fascinated, though, and Ada was rapt with attention and beautiful in her focus. Willow’s gaze wandered around the room, picking up tiny details she hadn’t noticed before: a photograph of a child on the mantelpiece, a protective symbol chalked above the doorway, the scent of incense lingering in the air. And then Willow realized that Ada had some basic knowledge of magic.

_ What would a Slayer’s magic look like? _ Willow wondered. Would it be any different than her own, which crackled like lightning, or Tara’s, which bloomed with the scent of lilies? Willow’s traitorous mind imagined doing a spell with Ada, how her red lips would look speaking an incantation, how her body would move through the gestures with lethal grace, like dancing, like killing.

Willow pulled her thoughts firmly away from that path. She had a  _ girlfriend, _ for Hecate’s sake, who was beautiful and kind and loyal and— Willow thought with some surprise—  _ powerful, _ more powerful than Willow gave her credit for. Tara didn’t allow the magic to control her. Tara had a strength in her, unyielding as stone, and the power that swept Willow away simply broke against Tara and left her standing.

Willow had not known that she thought of Tara as  _ weak _ until she realized how much stronger than her Tara was.

Two pairs of heavy, hurried footsteps sounded from the stairway. Ada looked up in alarm, then dumped the wildflowers out onto the table. She picked up the gun that had fallen out of the vase amidst the petals and leveled it at the door.

Several things happened very quickly.

Xander punched Ada in the face and slammed her wrist against the table, which sent her gun flying.

Polly leapt out of her seat, spilling her tea everywhere with a cry of alarm.

Ada pulled a knife out of her boot and swung it wildly at Xander, her curls tumbling out of their neat arrangement.

Tommy Shelby opened the door to the sitting room, shouted “Oi!” and joined the fray.

Buffy followed him into the room, looked at Willow, looked at Giles, looked at the three people brawling on the floor, and rolled her eyes. She hauled Tommy away first and shoved him toward Giles and Polly, who held him back through their combined efforts. Next was Xander, who looked very much worse for wear. She grabbed the back of his shirt, yanked him to his feet and out of range of Ada’s knife, and put herself in his place.

“Hi, I’m Buffy,” said Buffy. “Wanna tell me why you’re trying to kill my friend?”

Ada got to her feet, breathing heavily. She didn’t stow her knife. “He attacked me,” she said. Her words sounded thick, and when she pressed a hand to her mouth, it came away bloody.

Xander was shaking, Willow realized. His eyes were wide and horrified, he had several bruises already blooming on his face, and blood dripped from a shallow cut across his cheek. “I didn’t mean to,” he babbled. “I saw the gun and I just— I—” He looked down at his shaking hands.

“The soldier thing?” asked Willow, and Xander nodded miserably.

“Soldier thing?” Polly repeated. “What soldier thing?”

Willow found that she couldn’t quite explain it succinctly, and she thought the full story would be too close to oversharing. The others apparently felt the same way, because nobody spoke for a moment.

“For a time, Xander was… brainwashed into believing he was a soldier,” said Giles eventually. “There are still some aftereffects.”

“Aftereffects,” Xander echoed. He laughed, and it had a hollow sound to it.

“Yes, well.” Tommy shook off Polly’s restraining hands. “I was a soldier, a real one, and I don’t go around attacking women.” Ada opened her mouth, a look of indignation on her face, but Tommy held up a hand for silence. “Save it. We need to get the lot of you home as soon as possible. Alfie knows there’s two Slayers in town. He’s always wanted to bag himself a Slayer, but he knows Ada’s off-limits. Part of the deal. That means that you—” he pointed at Buffy “—are the only chance he has.”

“You think he’ll take that chance?” Polly asked.

Tommy scoffed. “If you think he won’t, you don’t know him. But you don’t need to worry, I’ve got a plan.”


	4. Home Through Shadows

Some time later, two cars pulled up to Ada Shelby’s house in London. Tommy got in one, and the others got in the other. The cars took opposite paths; one went north toward the Thames, one went south toward the shops. They were followed, of course, as Tommy knew they would be.

There were a series of traffic obstructions: an overturned carriage, rubble in the street, a truck of cargo that backed out of an alley without warning. A funeral procession. A house on fire. A street closed due to a shootout and a murder (the two incidents were unrelated). The followers lost the trail of the cars they were supposed to be following, much to their frustration. When they caught up again, the cars stood empty and abandoned on the side of the road.

Alfie Solomons cursed the air blue when he heard the news, then he sat back in his chair and laughed. “Tommy fucking Shelby and the fucking Slayer,” he said, and he laughed some more.

—-

Tommy wasn’t supposed to come to Watchers HQ with them. Buffy wasn’t sure why not, but Ada had gone still and angry when Tommy strolled up to the dock and hopped on the barge (Buffy hated that barge by now) as it pulled away from the pier.

“It’s a disguise, Ada,” Tommy said in response to her crossed arms and cold glare. “Alfie’s men saw us leave in separate cars. He doesn’t think I’m with the lot of you, therefore he won’t look for you where I am, at least not at first.”

“He’ll figure it out,” said Ada, but her anger seemed to abate.

“Probably,” Tommy agreed. He lit a cigarette. “But it’ll buy us some time. Charlie, weren’t you just complaining that you didn’t get enough sport?”

Charlie grunted noncommittally and glanced around at the smoke-stained backsides of warehouses and factories as they slid by. “Well, it’s no Black Country.”

Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. “Good man. The rest of you, hide yourselves. You too, Ada. And you, Pol.”

Polly scoffed in disbelief and didn’t move, even as Willow and Xander shut themselves in the wheelhouse (for which Buffy was grateful; she didn’t think she could spend another minute in the tiny wooden room) and Buffy and Giles burrowed into a pile of messy tarps.

“Look, Pol,” Tommy said, low and hurried.

Polly crossed her arms. “Don’t you  _ look, Pol _ me, Thomas Shelby.”

Buffy squinted through a gap in the tarps to see Tommy pinch the bridge of his nose. “Alfie likes to think he knows me,” he continued. “He thinks I’m a strange fucking gypsy, and he thinks himself very gentlemanly and civilized to tolerate my strange fucking gypsy behaviors. So if I want to leave London on a boat, he won’t question it, eh?”

“Come on, Pol,” said Ada. She tilted her head to indicate something out of Buffy’s view.

For a long, tense moment, Buffy thought Polly wouldn’t acquiesce and the whole plan would be ruined. Eventually, though, she let out a tiny sigh. “Fine,” Polly said, her tone short and clipped. “But I’m not crouching behind a box full of stolen liquor.” Her heels thudded against the deck of the barge, and Buffy heard the wheelhouse door open then shut again.

Ada hid herself in the cargo— Buffy couldn’t see where, but she heard the shifting of crates nearby and the quiet tinkling of glass bottles, presumably the aforementioned stolen liquor. “You want some?” Ada asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Buffy thought at first that Ada was asking  _ her, _ but after a moment Tommy sighed. “Yeah,” he said, and he pulled a crowbar from somewhere on the deck. Buffy heard the sound of wood creaking and nails popping free, then a cork leaving a bottleneck and a long, liquid swallow. “He put his fucking  _ teeth _ on me, Ada.” Tommy’s words came out a little thick, as though his hand was pressed over his mouth.  _ “Fuck.” _

Ada drew in a short, sharp breath. “Tommy Shelby, you are the most idiotic man I have ever known.”

Tommy laughed mirthlessly at that. “I am,” he agreed without reproach. “I am.” Another swallow. “But now he thinks he can trust me.”

“Can he?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

—-

Ada’s skin crawled as the barge wound its way through the canals and toward the Thames. At first, she thought it was only the prospect of going back to the place where men had sat and judged her and explained to her about  _ duty _ while trying to tear Karl from her arms. Only metaphorically, of course, because they knew that she’d have killed them for trying literally. She thought about the metaphor for a moment and decided it was too obvious of a literary device to be any good, then laughed inwardly at herself. She had been spending too much time with James if she was starting to get snobby about literary devices.

No, Ada realized as she caught the stench of vampire (which she thought was rather impressive, considering the stench of the Thames), her skin was crawling because at least a dozen of them, maybe more, watched Tommy from the riverbank. She couldn’t see them, of course, because she was hidden and so were they— hidden under bridges and behind windows, in the gaping pipes that dumped muck and worse into the river, in the dark London alleys that had never seen the sun. Charlie guided the barge past them, unaware, but there were more beyond, and more beyond that.

Ada shivered and pulled a simple spell of misdirection over herself like a warm blanket on a cold winter day and sat very, very still. She wondered if the other Slayer—  _ Buffy, _ what a name— felt the weight of those dead gazes too. How powerful was Buffy, exactly? Could she do magic as well? How old had she been when she came into her powers and her Watcher came to rip the terrible veil back from her eyes? She had so many questions, and she could just hit Tommy for arranging it so that she’d never have the chance to ask them.

Had Buffy lost her faith in her Watcher after the _Tento_ _di Cruciamentum?_ Ada couldn’t be sure, of course, but from what she had seen of Buffy and Giles, she didn’t think so. She wished she could talk about the trial with someone who _knew._ Ada remembered it only too well— the horrifying loss of strength, the feeling of being off-balance without the power that filled her veins with a heady fire. She explained it to Polly as best as she could, over the course of an evening of too much whiskey, but Pol hadn’t understood. How could she?

When Ada’s Watcher had told her what he did to her, when he told her about the whole vile crucible, she hadn’t seen it as a betrayal. Of course the men who watched her would want her to know how weak they can make her— they were  _ men, _ and she was a woman. They couldn’t let her forget her place.

Pol had understood that, at least.

Ada wondered idly if she’d see her Watcher again while she was there and found, somewhat to her surprise, that she didn’t care. There was bad blood in their past, certainly, but now she felt only distant numbness. She wasn’t sure if it was better than the hollow sting of abandonment.

_ Enough wool-gathering, _ Ada told herself. She turned her thoughts away from the past and toward the future. 1936, Giles had said, was when the Republicans gained a foothold in Spain. It was only fifteen years hence. She wondered if she’d live to see it, that glimpse of a better world, then promised herself fiercely that she would. She’d take Karl there to show him how things could be without men like Tommy Shelby.

These thoughts carried her to the river dock, and then it was time to disembark, and then it was time to drive, and then it was time to hurry up the granite steps and rap with a wrought-iron knocker on the age-darkened door, and then it was time to face the men who had cast her out when she had dared to choose herself over them.

—-

The door opened moments after Ada knocked, revealing a tall man in a crisp suit and an honest-to-God  _ monocle. _ Buffy had to bite her lip to keep herself from giggling. He glared down his long nose at them. “Yes?” he asked icily.

“I’m here to see Maddox,” said Ada.

_ “Mr. _ Maddox is indisposed, Miss…?”

Ada laughed at that. “Don’t act like you don’t know who I am.” She took a step forward, and another across the threshold. The man with the monocle backed up, clearly caught between slamming the door in her face and the consequences of such an action. Tommy followed her, touching his hat with a faint trace of sarcasm before pulling it off, then Buffy and the others filed in after him.

Buffy had to hold back an exclamation as she stepped into the hall. She didn’t want to admit it, but the interior was impressive. She imagined she might even find it intimidating if she were the sort to be easily intimidated. Regardless, it was a lovely and mysterious monument to the hubris of the Watchers. The ceilings soared high above her head, and she could just barely make out the carved wooden panelling that ran along the tops of the walls. Stuffy-looking men glared down from ancient portraits above elaborately-carved wooden doors. Off to one side was a wide, sweeping staircase that wrapped around the far wall as it ascended to the gallery above. Despite the double row of windows that let sunlight stream in from the south, shadows still lurked in the corners and behind the double row of marble pillars that marched down the center.

Xander let out a low whistle as he gazed around the hall. “Nice office, Giles.”

“Yes, well,” Giles said with faint air of disapproval. “They’ve made a few changes since I was here last.”

The man looked at him strangely, but Ada caught his attention once more. “Tell Maddox I’ll wait for him in the library.”

“The library?” he repeated. “I don’t think I can allow you to be in the library unsupervised.”

Ada took a step forward into his space and looked at him with a Slayer Stare. Buffy had to give her credit; she had a good one. “I don’t care what you can or can’t allow,” said Ada. “I will wait for Maddox in the library, and if you try to command me again, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The man paled but didn’t flee. “I shall tell Mr. Maddox that the Slayer wishes to see him, along with her…” He trailed off with a glance at the rest of the assembled party.

“Witnesses,” Ada finishes for him, smiling unpleasantly.

He gave a tiny nod and retreated through a nearby door.

“Right, then.” Ada glanced toward the stairs. “Never thought I’d be back here.” Polly fixed her with a look that was probably significant, but Buffy couldn’t interpret what it might mean. “I’m  _ fine. _ Follow me.”

Ada led their group up the wide stone staircase, their footsteps muffled by the thick red carpet that ran down the center. The library wasn’t far: down a passage, through a door, ‘round a few corners, and there it was. They passed a few others along the way: Watchers, Buffy assumed, or student Watchers, judging by some of their ages.  _ Were student Watchers like student teachers? _ Buffy wondered. Did they have to Watch under the supervision of another Watcher before they could be trusted to Watch on their own? Buffy made a note to ask Giles and then decided that she didn’t care. Fortunately, they seemed to recognize Ada, so they made themselves scarce.

Buffy was about to ask what Ada had done to scare so many Watchers into submission— and whether Ada might teach her the trick— when they halted abruptly.

“Here we are,” said Ada.

The double doors to the library were massive and ringed with so many protective spells that even Buffy could feel the faint, buzzing energy that emanated from the arched stone doorway. Ada reached out tentatively, but Willow’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

“Wait,” Willow said when Ada looked at her in irritation. “What if they’ve warded it against you? You could hurt yourself.” Xander threw Willow an odd look, but Willow didn’t seem to notice.

Ada glanced at the symbols carved into the stone surrounding the doorway. “They haven’t,” she said, but her tone was uncertain.

Tommy and Polly shared a glance, then Tommy pulled her back a pace.

“Let the little witch check,” murmured Polly.

Ada folded her arms. “I’m a witch too, you know.” But she allowed Willow to step forward and take her place in front of the double doors.

Willow raised her hands and closed her eyes and muttered things in languages Buffy didn’t know. She felt faint stirrings of power: from Willow and from the doorway, almost like a breeze against her skin. The walls seemed to shift and whisper as though they were living things with whom Willow was having a conversation. It was unsettling, to say the least, and Buffy shifted uncomfortably where she stood.

A few minutes later, Willow stepped back and nodded, a tired smile on her face. Buffy recognized it as the one she got after she broke through a particularly difficult security system or mastered a tricky new spell. “It’s only warded against enemies, nothing more specific. So… everyone, just make sure you don’t think about violence. Maybe focus on positive things about books.”

“Positive things about books,” Buffy repeated. She squared her shoulders. “Yeah. I can do that. Books are… well. They’ve got lots of words. Definitely a positive.”

Polly, standing behind her and somewhere off to the right, sighed.

Ada reached out for the door once more, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before grasping the curved bronze handle and pulling firmly.

The door swung open noiselessly.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” said Xander.

Polly shot him a look so scathing Buffy was sure it scorched her as it passed her by. “Thank you for your contribution.”

Xander let out a nervous little laugh. “Yeah, that’s me, Contribution Man.”

“Xander?” Tommy said.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Mercifully, Xander complied.

The library wasn’t very much like the old Sunnydale High library. It was much bigger, for one, and it had many more books, and quite a few paintings which seemed to either depict gory, violent battles or peaceful pastoral scenes. Buffy didn’t spend long examining the artwork; both topics were equally boring. In another sense, though, the library was exactly the same: it had the same air of mystery and hidden knowledge, and under the smell of stone and incense was the same scent of old books.

A group of student Watchers looked up from their books in alarm as Ada entered, followed by the rest of her entourage. Buffy wasn’t sure if she liked being part of Ada’s entourage or not.  _ A study group? _ she thought.  _ Do Watchers even have study groups? _

“Go on, get out of here,” Tommy said, but not one of them budged. “I said go!”

“Excuse me, sir,” said the oldest and primmest Watcher. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen. “But I take offense at your manners.”

“Do you, now?” Tommy reached a hand into his jacket, but Ada elbowed him sharply.

“I require the library for my personal use,” she said, sounding bored. “Do clear out.”

The young Watchers looked at one another uncertainly but didn’t move.

Ada sighed. “How many casualties in the past month?”

“Two, Miss Shelby.” The Watcher who spoke before lifted his chin as though in defiance. “And three, the month before that.”

“It’s  _ Thorne,” _ Ada said through clenched teeth, but the young Watcher didn’t correct himself. “I am here to… mend bridges, shall we say. I am sure that when I am once more reinstated to the Watcher’s Council in good standing, and the Council has my abilities at their disposal again, those casualties will drop to zero.”

The young Watcher’s expression of disapproval dissolved around the edges into uncertainty. “I… yes, Miss Shelby.”

“But for that to happen, I require solitary access to the library.” Ada smiled. “Go on. I’m sure the lot of you could use a break from studying. You’ve got exams coming up, don’t you?”

The Watcher glanced back at his group. “Er, yes, ma’am.”

“Go on, then. Take a break, relax your eyes. You won’t do yourselves any favors by tiring yourselves out now.”

The Watcher glanced at his classmates again, who looked back at him, nonplussed. “Yes, Miss Shelby. Thank you, er, ma’am.” The small group of students closed their books and gathered up their papers, then filed by in twos and threes. None of them seemed to want to get too close to Ada.

Ada smirked. “Trying to throw your weight around doesn’t work so well when they don’t know you, Tommy. It’s  _ me _ they’re afraid of, here.”

“Those boys didn’t seem afraid of you,” Polly said.

“Yes, well.” Ada looked away. “I suppose they don’t know me, either.”

An uncomfortable silence descended and lingered for a few moments.

Giles broke it. “Well, we’re looking for a book called  _ De Generibus Artium Magicarum Anglorum, _ by Francis Sutton-Grove. It should be under  _ S, _ for  _ Sutton-Grove, _ or possibly under  _ G, _ for  _ Generibus, _ depending on how this library is organized.”

Buffy looked around, taking in the hundreds of thousands of books, and sighed.

—-

It was not, in fact, under  _ S _ for  _ Sutton-Grove _ or  _ G _ for  _ Generibus. _ Instead, it was under  _ E _ for  _ English, _ and then  _ 18 _ to signify that it was published in the 18th century, then  _ M _ for  _ magic, books of, _ then  _ U _ which Giles said stood for  _ unavailable to students _ but Buffy privately thought should stand for  _ unbelievably boring. _ She couldn’t make herself focus on the words for more than a minute, and even Willow started yawning as she flipped through the pages.

Giles took off his glasses to polish them. “It’s strange,” he said. “I can’t seem to— it’s like the words go in one ear and out the other, as it were.”

It was Polly who recognized it first. “A confusion spell,” she said. “They’re trying to distract us, to keep us here.”

“You know the counterspell?” Tommy asked. He looked jumpy, anxious; he shook his head every few seconds as though trying to clear water from his ears. He checked and rechecked the inside of his coat. When he got up to pace, Buffy spotted a flash of metal: a gun, probably. After the incident with Ada, she hoped he wouldn’t draw it.

Polly nodded sharply. “Come on,” she said to Ada. “I’ll teach it to you.”

They stood facing each other, their fingers barely touching. Polly started to chant, and Ada joined in a minute later as Polly’s verses began to repeat themselves. Willow watched them raptly for a moment, and Buffy was worried the spell wasn’t working, but she snapped out of it a moment later and turned back to the book.

The breaking of the confusion spell was like surfacing after from underwater. Buffy had almost adjusted to it, and then she was out of it and gasping in the cold air.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. “We’re about to have company over,” Buffy said, “and I’m really not feeling like the hostess with the mostess.”

Giles winced but recovered quickly enough to help her, Tommy, and Xander drag a pair of bookcases and a heavy desk in front of the door to make an impromptu barricade. “I’m afraid this won’t do much for your image here,” he said, breathing heavily as the wood scraped over the stone floor.

“That’s alright,” Tommy replied. “I doubt we’ll be back.”

A loud knocking started up on the other side of the door, followed by a series of dull impacts, as though someone were throwing their shoulder against the ancient wood. The barricade held.

“Ah!” Willow said triumphantly. “I found it.”

“The spell you used to get here?” Polly asked, leaning over her shoulder.

Willow shook her head. “The spell I can use to take us back.”

Polly eyed it for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “Well well, little witch. Let us see what you know of control.”

Willow began to cast the spell, and the air in the room took on the tang of ozone.

“I wish we could have talked more,” Buffy said to Ada over the increasingly loud thuds coming from the direction of the door. “I… don’t get a lot of chances to talk to other Slayers.”

“No, I imagine you don’t.” Ada’s tone was dry. She glanced at Buffy, and Buffy saw a flash, no more, of sadness in her dark eyes. “But— I wish the same.” She looked as though she wanted to ask Buffy something but couldn’t quite work up the courage to do so.

Buffy thought she knew what it might be. “Death is the Slayer’s gift,” she said, as gently as she could. “Do you want to know when you’ll receive it? I could tell you, if you want me to. Giles— he knows the names of all of us, going back to the twelfth century. That’s how we knew to look for you.”

Ada opened her mouth, then closed it, then pressed her hand to her lips. Her eyes filled with tears. “No,” she gasped out around her fingers. “Don’t you dare.”

“It’s not so bad. I promise.” Buffy pulled Ada into a gentle hug. Ada quaked but allowed herself to be held. “It’s beautiful, and peaceful.” They stood like that for a few moments before stepping apart once more. Buffy felt Tommy’s eyes on her but paid him no mind.

“How do you—” Ada began, but Buffy shook her head.

“Girl’s gotta have some secrets.”

Ada gave her a tremulous smile.

A breeze smelling of rain and juniper blew through the room, setting the pages of Willow’s book aflutter and whipping through Buffy’s hair. She sighed to herself, but she supposed it couldn’t get much worse than it already was.

Naturally, of course, she was wrong.

Rain began to fall— not a drizzle, but a proper downpour, so loud against the stone floor of the library that it nearly echoed.

“The books!” Giles cried in dismay, but no one paid him any mind, for all the shadows in the room began to darken and lengthen, writhing on the floor to point to Willow.

“Come here, quickly!” said Willow. She reached out her hand, and Buffy and Xander and Giles all grabbed on to her and to each other, huddling together, drawing themselves inward to shelter from the painful force of the rain.

Although the storm was heavy enough to block out the light from the windows, the room grew lighter. Buffy was puzzled at first, then realized that Willow was glowing, brighter and brighter until only her silhouette was visible through the dark curtains of rain. Buffy’s breath caught in her chest as Willow’s silhouette ran through all the colors of the rainbow.

The shadows crawled forward, squirming and coiling over the stone floor of the library, and Buffy didn’t want to let them touch her. She screwed her eyes shut against the eerie sight. There was a sickening lurch as the ground fell away from under her feet, then a great rushing of wind that could be heard even over the roar of the rain, then a sensation like walking through a door into another room.

When Buffy opened her eyes again, she was in her own living room with the shocked faces of Anya, Tara, and Dawn staring up at her from the couch. The rain gradually slowed to a drizzle and petered out.

Anya was the first to speak. “You couldn’t have chosen a spell that didn’t require you to dump a lake’s worth of water into your own house?”

“What can I say?” Buffy threw her head back and laughed with relief, the last few raindrops landing on her upturned face. “I like to make an entrance.”


End file.
